Broken Honor

by Potter, Patricia;

  “Sergeant Major Hawkins Jordan.” He hesitated a moment. “I remember him visiting my grandfather twenty years ago. Just before my grandfather died. He was working with my grandfather on a military project. He’s founder of Jordan Industries. His son, Brian, is now CEO.”

  Amy’s blood ran faster. Hawkins Jordan. He was one of the few survivors of the command staff.

  “He must be eighty or more now.”

  “And he still plays golf four times a week,” Eachan said. “Mostly with senators and congressmen, and he can beat most of them.”

  “A big rise for an enlisted man,” Irish said. “He had to have influence … and seed money.”

  “The gold,” Amy said.

  “And blackmail,” Sally said after a short silence.

  Dustin hadn’t entered the speculation, but his face was still pale, his lips had thinned. “The bastard,” he whispered. “My grandfather died a week after Jordan visited him.”

  Irish spread the palms of his hands on the table. “We have no proof. Only speculation. And if we’re right, is it Hawkins Jordan or his son who’s responsible for what’s happening now?”

  “The son was in my office a few days ago. He wanted me to sign off on the sale of armored personnel carriers to an African country,” Dustin said, and for the first time Amy saw a passionate anger in his eyes. It was followed by sudden comprehension, even hatred. Then they all disappeared, and blandness settled over his face.

  “Did you?” Irish asked.

  “No,” he said simply. “But it might go through anyway.”

  The comment said far more than the actual words did. Eachan was saying that this Jordan had more influence than he himself did and that, in fact, Eachan had qualms about the man. It revealed a glimpse of integrity that she knew Irish didn’t think Eachan had.

  “What do you know about him? Or the company?” Irish asked.

  “Which one?”

  “Both,” Irish said impatiently.

  “As I said, the old man has enormous influence, mainly because of campaign contributions. The son is something else. Smooth. Charming. Ruthless.”

  He stopped, as if suddenly realizing what he had said. Amy saw another look pass between Eachan and Sally. She asked the question: “Do you think he might have been involved with the attempt to drug your cousin?”

  “To use against me?” Dustin asked. “Possibly. And it might have nothing to do with that damned German train. He wants that sale. He might have thought that if he photographed my cousin in a compromising situation, it would change my mind.”

  “I wonder if it would be that benevolent,” Irish said. “Murder isn’t much of a step further than blackmail.”

  “There’s no proof that the Jordans are involved,” Dustin pointed out. “We’re just speculating here. And the African sale has nothing to do with a robbery that happened fifty years ago.”

  Irish shook his head. “If a conglomerate the size of Jordan Industries was found to be established on a foundation of stolen gold, I don’t think it would last long. There would be a hundred suits filed, not to mention bad publicity.”

  “We don’t know they have the gold,” Amy said. “Maybe someone is still looking for it. Maybe it was never found. Maybe someone thinks I might have a clue to it.”

  They all stared at her.

  “I don’t think my grandfather had any of it,” she said. “He lived well, but not that well. From what Irish has said about his family, I don’t think his grandfather had anything to do with the theft, either.” She turned toward Dustin and Sally. “Could your grandfather have taken any part of it?”

  Dustin hesitated long enough to make Amy wonder. Then, “Jordan emerged from the forties as the wealthiest of all,” he said. “I think he’s as likely a suspect as any. If, in fact, the gold wasn’t just lost in the last days of the war. It may not be connected to anyone with the command. It could have been lost anywhere along the way. From Salzburg to New York.”

  “The trunks of gold disappeared in Salzburg,” Irish said.

  “They were stored there for months,” Dustin said. “I don’t suppose it was inventoried every week, so we have no idea—nor did the commission—as to when it actually disappeared.”

  “And the other items?”

  Eachan didn’t say anything.

  The tension between the two men still ran high. Amy decided to try to cut it. “This Brian Jordan. Would he have the power to do everything that has been happening to us? My house destroyed, accidents, murders?”

  Eachan nodded. “Probably. He has one hell of a security department. But that’s normal in his business. He produces and sells very advanced weaponry, including some classified equipment.”

  “Would they have access to government investigative agencies? Like the CID or FBI?”

  She glanced at Irish. He was leaning lazily against a wall, but she suspected he was way ahead of her. In another second, he confirmed that. “Most large corporations recruit from federal agencies. I’ve had offers myself.”

  “So they might still have contacts in those agencies?”

  Irish nodded. “It’s one of the reasons these people are valuable. The companies are buying contacts as well as experience and training.”

  Eachan didn’t add anything. Instead, he appeared relieved that the conversation had veered away from him.

  “So if Sally’s drawing is sent around to agencies, someone might recognize the picture?” Amy addressed that question to Eachan.

  “Possibly,” he said.

  Amy was thinking out loud now. She was sure Irish must have run through this himself, but he seemed content that she was doing the asking. Eachan didn’t become quite as defensive with her. “Then wouldn’t whoever sent this man after us find him rather an embarrassment?”

  Irish smiled approvingly. Eachan looked startled, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Sally looked surprised, too.

  “They don’t seem overly concerned about killing people. So why should they concern themselves about embarrassment?” Sally asked.

  “Except for the attempt on Amy’s life in the hospital, everything could be an accident or a random crime. A house fire, a gas explosion, a hit and run, a simple burglary. They’re becoming more and more desperate.”

  “They must know now that we can identify at least one of them,” Amy said.

  Irish turned to Dustin Eachan. “It might be productive to start looking for fresh unidentified bodies,” Irish said.

  “Or they could send him overseas,” Dustin said. “Get him out of the country. Jordan Industries has interests throughout the world.”

  Sally, who had been quiet until then, interceded. “But he doesn’t know I can draw. I don’t think anyone does.”

  Eachan turned to her. “Did you leave any of those sketching materials in your room?”

  Sally’s face tensed. “Yes.”

  “Then we have to assume they know. Whoever,” he said pointedly, “they might be.”

  “I don’t think we can wait around until the man is identified,” Irish said. “I can’t be gone that long, and I’m not leaving Amy alone.”

  “What do you propose?” Eachan raised an eyebrow. “Brian Jordan is one of the most politically connected men in the country. We have no proof.”

  Amy studied his face and thought something else was at stake, too. Of them all, only Dustin Eachan had escaped threat of bodily harm. Because he was too visible a target? Or was he alive because he could still be used for some purpose?

  “Are you willing to wait and risk your cousin’s life? I sure as hell am not going to risk Dr. Mallory for your goddamn career. Or mine.”

  “I’m waiting for a suggestion,” Eachan said.

  Irish returned to the chair, put his foot on it and looked at Eachan thoughtfully. “We have to make them come out of the shadows.”

  “How in the hell are we going to do that?”

  “A trap,” Irish said.

  twenty-four

  NORFOLK

>   Irish drove Eachan and his cousin to the parking lot where he’d left the rental car, then handed the keys over to Eachan.

  Eachan looked at the purple car dubiously. “Are you sure it will get us back to my car?”

  “No,” Irish said cheerfully. Then he took pity on Sally. “It will get you there.”

  She laughed. It was a pleasant sound, the first time he’d heard it tonight. “I never thought otherwise, Colonel.”

  Eachan hesitated a moment, then took a key ring from his pocket and detached a key, handing it to Irish. “I’ll call you at my Maryland house in two days. Will that give you time?”

  “I hope so. We’re running out of it.”

  “Take care of my house.”

  “Are you sure you want to risk it?”

  “We don’t have time to rent one.”

  Irish made no attempt to leave. “What about your cousin? She can stay with us.”

  Eachan shook his head. “You seem to be the main target right now. I’ll find a place.” He hesitated, then held out his hand. “Good luck.”

  Irish nodded, then watched them drive out. He wasn’t sure he could trust Dustin Eachan. But he had damned little choice. He went to his rental car. Another thirty minutes, and he and Amy would be on their way again.

  He planned to stop at the chief’s trailer and tell him they had received a check, enough to rent a car and pay him, and planned a weekend trip to Washington. They might even stay a few days longer, since their son wasn’t expected until late next week.

  Irish used a flashlight to inspect the car thoroughly for any device that might have been planted. Then he got in and drove back to the trailer. Amy had packed most of what they had. They left some food in the refrigerator, saw the chief then drove out.

  Amy was quiet, and when he glanced at her, she smiled. But it was a wan, tired smile. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what a toll this must be taking on her. Moving from place to place, always aware that killers might be just behind them.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “We don’t seem to have many choices.”

  “I liked Sally Eachan.”

  “What about the Assistant to the Deputy Secretary of State?”

  “She likes him.”

  “What about you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He doesn’t give much away.”

  “No, he doesn’t. But I think I trust that more than I would have his ready assent.”

  “Can you get what you need?”

  He reached over and took her hand. “I’ll be calling in every marker I have.”

  “Do you trust Dustin Eachan?”

  “Up to a point,” Irish replied.

  “What point?”

  “Let’s just say not entirely,” he clarified.

  She leaned back, and he hoped she was relaxing. They would drive through the night to the Kentucky facility where she’d stored her grandfather’s desk. They would check it for any clues, then leave her boxes of papers there.

  He found himself constantly looking in the rearview mirror, taking exits off the interstate, then catching up with it again a few miles ahead. He only hoped that he hadn’t missed any kind of transmitter. He would soon find out.

  Irish stopped several times for coffee. One time, Amy woke before curling back into a ball and going back to sleep, Bo next to her. The other time he took Bo for a short pit stop. He found a public phone booth, and made four collect calls. No way to trace those, unless his opponents had taps on every person he’d ever met. It was five in the morning, and none of the calls were immediately appreciated, but he’d wanted to catch the recipients at home. He told each what he needed, then thanked them.

  They had a breakfast of fast food. Thank God for it now, though he usually abhorred the stuff.

  “Why don’t I drive for a while?” Amy asked as they looked at the map. A hundred miles to go.

  “Good idea,” he said.

  “Any luck?”

  He looked startled.

  “When you called.”

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “Not entirely. Did you get what you need?”

  “Yes,” he said. “They’ll meet us in two days in Maryland.”

  “All of them?”

  “One’s unavailable. The other three will be there.”

  She reached over and touched his arm. “They know it’s dangerous?”

  “Oh, yes. They also know there could be legal problems.”

  “They must be very good friends,” she said a little wistfully.

  Friends. Maybe. Strangely enough, they had not seen each other much in fifteen years. There were a few phone calls. One drunken reunion five years ago. Promises to keep track of each other. And they did, by long distance. One had asked him a favor three years ago. They all owed each other. But friends? Friends kept in contact with each other.

  Their bond was too painful.

  In fact, he’d really hated calling them. He’d always disliked asking favors. But now he had no choice. And these guys were the best.

  PIKESVILLE, KENTUCKY

  Amy drove into the old storage facility and confronted a locked gate. She sat in the parked car for a moment, then stretched. She was stiff. So was, she noticed, Irish. Both their bodies had taken something of a beating in the past few days. And it had been a long drive to eastern Kentucky, where she had once lived with her grandfather. As they had driven through Pikesville, she remembered the main street, the church cemetery where her grandfather was buried, the rolling hills that he loved. It had been twenty years since her grandfather died, five years since the last time she was here. She’d inventoried her grandfather’s items then, weighed the possibility of taking them home, and driven past the grand old home he’d owned. It had been sixty years old when he’d died, and had always needed something fixed. But there was a wrap-around porch, and she could still see him in her mind’s eye, sitting on the porch, his gaze wandering out toward the hills and the mines where his father had once worked.

  He escaped that fate, but he’d never escaped the lure of the hills.

  Suicide. It had been hard to bear then, even though she knew he had been ill. Now her heart hurt even more. She wondered whether he knew what was coming.

  She’d been in her second year of college. Just eighteen. She’d finished high school a year early.…

  The storage facility was old, not like the new, gleaming acres of storage facilities sprouting up everywhere in an increasingly mobile society. There was no office outside the gate, only a number to call in case of an emergency. Unfortunately her key was long gone. She paid the rent once a year and usually forgot about the space until the next bill came. And she hadn’t given it a moment’s thought when she’d fled Memphis days ago.

  She spread her hands helplessly as she looked at the phone number.

  “It’s probably a wild goose chase,” she said.

  “It won’t be my first,” he replied with a wry smile. “And we have the time. My friends won’t be in Maryland for another day.”

  “Could they possibly know about this?” They was the only term she had for those who had turned her life into a roller coaster. Irish called them “the bad guys.” That wasn’t descriptive enough for her.

  “You didn’t leave a bill around your house, or a key?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Then it should be safe enough.” He looked at the sign. “Let’s find a telephone.”

  Twenty minutes later, an old man unlocked the gate and led them inside the office. “Miss Mallory, isn’t it?”

  Amy tried not to show surprise that someone remembered her. She was ready with her identification. She was sorry to say she didn’t recognize the man.

  He looked down at Bo, who was huddled next to her.

  “Fine fellow,” he observed.

  He’d instantly endeared himself to her. Not many people were that discriminating.

  “Hugh Avery,” the man said. “I remember
when you rented this place, then when you came back. I kinda check to see if you renew every year. Didn’t want to see your grandfather’s stuff go to auction. Used to have breakfast with your grandfather. He sure was proud of you. Said you were the smartest young lady he ever saw.”

  Her grandfather had never said that to her. She felt a blush of pleasure along with a stab of regret. They had grown closer after a few initial years of pure hostility. But never as much as she now wished.

  There would have been so much he could tell her.

  And he was the last of her family.

  “Thank you,” she said. “It’s good to know that.”

  He beamed at her as he unlocked the gate. “Have your key?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, you don’t need identification.” He turned and looked at Irish. “This your husband?”

  “Just a good friend,” she said. “Has anyone asked about me?”

  “Nope,” he said, his glance still running over Irish speculatively. “Should they? I don’t let anyone in unless they have the proper authorization.”

  “Of course not,” she soothed him.

  He led the way inside, and went into the small office, returning with a key. “Here you go, Miss Mallory. You just keep it. I’ll get another one made. It will open the gate, too. You just stay as long as you want, and lock it when you leave.”

  “Thank you,” Amy said. “You’ve been very kind.”

  He looked pleased, then left, apparently sensing that they wanted to be left alone.

  Irish switched on the lights. The small area was crammed. The desk sat against the wall. A huge chair was next to it. There were several crates of books. Some, she remembered, were novels. She picked one of them up. The Silver Chalice. A historical. He had argued history with her, had been responsible for her love of it.

  She saw him in her mind’s eye. He’d had a full head of gray hair cut very short, like a newly minted Marine. His blue eyes never lost their intelligence, and they were shaded by heavy dark eyebrows. He needed reading glasses, which he hated and always lost. As long as she knew him, he was whipcord thin.

  Probably because he worked so hard in his garden. He loved gardening and had a green thumb with both vegetables and flowers. It had always seemed strange to her that he was gentle with vegetables but so hard on people. He barked at them. She’d hated it in the beginning, but the housekeeper had taken her aside and said it was just his way. He’d simply been in the military too long. Everyone, to him, was a subordinate of some kind. Amy had understood why her mother had hated it. She had not been good at confrontation, and her father had never respected anyone who didn’t stand up to him.